Zoe pressed a hand to her jolting heart and leaned out. There were just two of them, standing on the steps in the glow of the flambeaux. The lady's hood concealed her features, but she did not trouble to guard her voice now, and Zoe heard her say in French, "… strange bedfellows, indeed! I hope I may be far away when she learns of it."
The man said in the same language, "She will be enraged. So, I think, will many others."
"And you among them, eh, my friend?"
A pause, then he answered slowly, " 'Tis far from our original intent. I sometimes think you do not welcome this new alliance any more than I."
There came the rumble of distant wheels and the lamps of a carriage bobbed along the deserted street.
The lady said, as if on a sigh, "We all have our loyalties, do we not? One does what one must do. Almost the trap it is ready to close. All will be over very quickly, I think, and—"
"And the Squire will launch his—"
"What are you about, may I ask?"
That harsh autocratic voice sent Zoe's heart leaping up behind her front teeth and for an instant she was as if frozen with terror. Wheeling around, her knees were so weak she had to lean back against the window for support.
Lady Buttershaw came marching along the corridor, holding a lamp high.
Zoe felt sick. She tried to answer, but her tongue seemed nailed to the roof of her mouth. And then she heard Lady Julia say, "I thought I heard something."
Dazzled perhaps by the light from her lamp, Lady Buttershaw was addressing her sister, who approached from the other end of the corridor. Zoe was overcome by relief. She had not been seen after all! 'But I will be at any second!' she realized. She looked about in desperation, but this time there was no convenient sideboard to shield her. A large chest between the next two windows was at least ten feet distant, and even if she managed to run so far without the movement being noticed, should either lady bring a lamp into the gallery she would certainly be seen!
Her fingers, wet with perspiration, touched the draperies beside her. Heavy draperies; tied back with silken ropes. If she untied one, it would be remarked. But she was quite small. Perhaps… She knelt and dove under the bottom half of the drapery, gathering her dressing gown tight, and trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible.
"Of course you heard something," said Lady Buttershaw tartly. "My guests are departing."
"Do your guests cause that curtain to click on its rod?"
Peeping out of the narrow space between the drapery and the wall, Zoe saw the light brightening. To her horror it shone on the wet imprint of a small hand below the window-sill. She thought, 'I am going to be sick…!'
Large feet were advancing. Lady Buttershaw boomed. "Only look at this!" Zoe's eyes began to blur and she waited with growing faintness to be discovered.
A bony hand shot out.
Zoe's heart seemed to stop beating.
"Confound it," snarled Lady Buttershaw. "That fool of a butler has left the casement unlocked! Small wonder the drapery was rattling. There is an icy blast coming in here! Damme, why is it so curst difficult to find reliable servants nowadays? We might all have been murdered in our beds!"
The casement was pulled shut and the lock slammed down.
Lady Julia said, "I scarce think that likely, Clara, since this window is upstairs and so close to the flambeaux. Still, you are right. Arbour must be taken to task."
"He shall be! I'll ring for the bird brain this very instant! He deserves to be rousted out of his bed!"
"No doubt, but not at this present, if you please. I want to have a word with you about Jean…"
The sisters walked away, their voices and the lamplight fading.
It seemed an eternity before a door closed.
Zoe tottered back to her room, fell onto the bed and wept. This spy business was intended for stronger spirits than hers! She had never been so frightened in her life! At least, when she had been almost caught before, she'd been holding Boadicea, and had a perfectly logical reason for being downstairs. If she had been found this time, whatever reason could she have given for lurking about under the drapery? What would Lady Buttershaw have done to her? Her only hope must have been that Lady Julia would not allow her throat to have been cut on the spot!
She blew her nose and thought disgustedly, 'Oh, why do I have to be such a coward?' But coward or no, she had learned something, so perhaps even a cowardly spy was better than no spy at all!
Chapter XIV
While not as fashionable as White's, or Brookse's, or the Cocoa Tree, the Madrigal suited Sir Owen Furlong. It was conveniently near to his little house in Bond Street, the rooms were very clean, the play not too steep, and the food excellent. If the cream of the Top Ten Thousand disdained it, some of London's leading writers, wits, and artists did not, and it was beginning to acquire a reputation for fine dining and stimulating conversation.
Furlong had spent the morning at East India House in a fruitless attempt to see Lord Hayes or Lieutenant Skye. He returned to the Madrigal at noon, to find Cranford waiting for him in a quiet ante room, his expression such that Furlong chose his words with care.
Ignoring an enquiry as to whether he'd seen Morris today, Cranford growled that it was not necessary to "tittup about" and that if Sir Owen thought the bruise on his temple was colourful, he should blasted well see the one on his hip. "More to the point," he went on before his friend could respond, "have you seen her?”
Without evasion Furlong answered, "Today? No. Miss Benevento intended to walk with her this morning, I believe. Though in this beast of a wind, I doubt—"
"Oh, that won't stop Miss Zoe," snorted Cranford bitterly. "The silly chit has not the sense to keep out of the rain, yet thinks herself capable of playing Heroic Spy for us and outwitting the Buttershaw! Damme, but I could not make her understand she must leave that accursed house!"
Furlong said gently, "I am very sure she did not mean—"
"Have done! I let a slip of a girl best me. No need to wrap it in clean linen. Half London witnessed the fiasco, I dare swear, for which I've no one to blame but myself." Cranford glared at the window until Furlong wondered the glass did not crack, then declared with a sort of rough desperation, "I wanted no part of her from the start! You'll recollect that."
"Oh, yes, indeed. You said she was a—er, repulsive screecher, as I—"
"The devil I did! As if I—" He checked. It seemed to Furlong that he winced, and his voice broke. "Well, and I was a fool," he continued huskily. "But… Oh, dash it all, Owen! Why must females be so… so…"
"So—female?" Touched by the despair in his friend's face, Furlong said, "Heaven knows, Perry. I do not. Never have been able to understand the pretty creatures."
Cranford sighed, and Furlong said, "I think you have become—"
Morris flung the door open, exclaiming, "Run you to earth at last, Owen! You'll not believe what—" Catching sight of Cranford, he halted, and gasped, "Perry! My poor fellow!" He grinned broadly. "Are you much hurt?"
"Why should I be hurt?" said Cranford, glaring at him.
"Heard a lady tried to push you into the Thames and that you took a proper header." Morris chuckled. "Bertie Crisp said—"
Cranford, who cried friends with the popular young marquis, growled, "I might have known 'twould be that cork-brained thimble-wit! I collect Bertie was rowing with the Thames watermen again, and could not wait to spread his gossip all over Town!"
"Well, of course." Unaware of Furlong's frantic gestures, Morris blundered on merrily, "Whatever would you expect? You old rascal! If anyone had told me you were the kind to cavort with some pretty wench in the clear light of day, I'd—"
He recoiled with a gasp as Cranford sprang up to seize him by the cravat and snarl into his shocked face, "She is not a wench, damn your eyes!"
Morris tried to free himself, and stammered, "I'm—ah, very sorry. But—but I thought—"
"You haven't thought in years!" Cranford released him with a jerk, picked u
p his cane, and limped to the door. "Make mock of me if it entertains you. But, I warn you, leave the lady out of it!"
"No—Perry, wait! I don't even know who—"
Cranford wrenched the door open and said savagely, "I begin to think August Falcon is right about you, Morris! Be damned if I don't!" The door slammed behind him.
"Jove!" said Morris glumly. "I properly put m'foot in m'mouth, didn't I?"
"Both feet," confirmed Furlong.
"Then, I take it the lady in question was Miss Grainger. Has Perry lost his wits? He's no rake! And even a rake would know better than to kiss a lady in public."
"True," said Furlong. "I rather suspect he became exasperated. He's not the most placid fellow I ever met, and—well, he was trying to persuade her to go away from Yerville Hall, only she has it in her mind that she can be of help to us by staying there. Which," he added thoughtfully, "she can indeed."
"Dashed plucky of her," said Morris. "But 'twould be a chancy business. Small wonder Perry don't want her to—"
The door opened. Cranford put his head around it and said shamefacedly, "My apologies, Jamie. My curst stupid temper. The truth is, I'm furious with myself—not with you. May I please be forgiven?"
Morris was the last man to hold a grudge; hands were wrung, backs pounded, apologies accepted, and wine ordered. They gathered comfortably around the hearth, and Cranford told these two good friends exactly what had transpired on the riverbank. He did not spare himself, and when he finished, Morris said kindly, "Poor fellow. I am so sorry. Gad, but we have troubles with our affaires de coeur! Even if she should decide she wanted to, Falcon won't let his sister marry me; he don't have the sense to know where his heart lies; and your lady has refused you! Furlong's the only one whose romance prospers, dashed if he ain't!"
Sir Owen grinned. "Ah, but perhaps 'tis just that I've not yet flown my colours. You may be very sure I don't mean to rush the lady."
"I didn't rush Miss Zoe," said Cranford indignantly. "I've known her for two weeks! I doubt my parents met more than once, and that well chaperoned, before they stood at the altar together!"
"Different nowadays, dear boy," Morris pointed out. "Ladies like to be pursued. I fancy Miss Grainger thought you didn't mean it."
"Didn't mean it?" spluttered Cranford. "Why the deuce would I—"
"She's likely heard the talk," explained Morris reasonably. "Everyone knows you were mad for the Laxton. And then to kiss Miss Grainger out of doors and in a public place!" He pursed his lips. "Not respectful, Perry. I'll wager she thought it wasn't marriage you had in mind."
Cranford rose out of his chair with a roar of wrath.
Furlong, who had fought laughter through this exchange, intervened hurriedly. "No, no! Come down out of the boughs, Perry! Jamie's as tactful as any crocodile, but he may have a point, you know. And we've other matters to consider."
Cranford glowered at him, then drove a hand through his hair and sat down again, muttering, "Lord! What a fool I am! You're right, of course. The important thing is that the lady be protected from her sweet self. I did not call on her yesterday. Want her to have time to forgive me. But I daren't leave it much longer!" A hunted look came into his eyes. "When I think of the little soul in that great grim house, with that awful woman…!"
Furlong said, "We can check on her through Miss Benevento, praise heaven. And Tummet is watching the house. If we—"
A knock at the door interrupted him, and Florian came in to give Cranford a letter. "It was brought round from Sir Owen's house on Bond Street, sir," he said in his mellow voice. "I thought it might be important."
Cranford thanked him, and as he bowed and left them, handed the letter to Furlong. "Looks like your brother's awful scrawl."
Furlong broke the seal, read eagerly for a few seconds, then exclaimed, "Damn that fool! Derek sent this to Town by special messenger, and Gideon's new man has let it sit for two days! The Lady Aranmore is safe anchored in Bristol Harbour, I thank God!"
"Hooray!" cried Morris leaping up in his excitement.
Cranford stood also and asked anxiously, "Does he mention young Grainger—or whatever he's calling himself?"
Furlong read on, and answered, "Yes, by George! Here it is! 'Mr. Grant, the mystery passenger I told you of, has—' (Oh, Gad!) 'has disappeared!' " Morris gave a groan, Cranford swore, and Furlong read on, " 'I saw him rolling on…' (somebody's) 'neck?' (Confound Derek! That can't be right! Why did he never learn how to form his letters properly?) 'I saw him…' (Ah!) 'strolling on the quarter-deck the night before we expected to make port. We were delayed for thirty-six hours by a heavy fog that obliged us to ride at anchor outside the harbour. During that time, Mr. Grant disappeared. As you know he had offered…' (no!) 'suffered a severe illness and was not fully recovered. I fear he must have become faint and fallen overboard. Now I am further delayed by a great many' (something) 'idiots demanding to know what happened to the poor fellow.' " Sir Owen paused and glanced at Cranford's stern face. "He may have decided to swim for it, you know, fearing what might await him when they docked."
"True." Cranford threw on his cloak. "But it would be a taxing swim for a sick man. Does Derek say anything more?"
Furlong ran his eyes swiftly down the page. "Not about Grainger—or Grant."
Morris said gloomily, "Likely he was knifed and tossed overboard."
Watching Cranford limp to the door, Furlong called, "Do you go to warn Miss Grainger?"
"Of course."
"Then carry a pistol with you. And keep in mind that Tummet will be in the Square garden. He's a good man in a brawl."
Cranford scarcely heard him. All he could think of was that he must get to Zoe. He prayed she would not refuse to see him.
It rained steadily throughout the night, but although Zoe was awake, she scarcely heard it. Her mind was so full of conjectures and anxieties that sleep was out of the question, and not until the early morning did she doze off at last. Gorton brought in her breakfast at eight o'clock and drew back the window curtains on a blustery grey morning. The rain had stopped, but the sky was leaden, and a stiff wind snatched leaves from the trees and chased them into a colourful Autumn scamper across the sodden lawn.
Gorton looked surprised when Zoe told her that she meant to take Cromwell to the park today, but she said nothing. Zoe found covert glances coming her way, and realized she must look as heavy-eyed as she felt. She exerted herself to be cheerful, and evidently succeeded, as Gorton was soon chatting easily.
There was, she said, a great to-do. Lady Buttershaw had left a note for her maid commanding that Mr. Arbour wait upon her at ten o'clock, precisely. "The time," said Gorton, lowering her voice and looking solemn, "was underlined and followed by two exclamation points. A sure sign that my lady was vexed. And poor Mr. Arbour like to suffer a nervous spasm, wondering whatever he's done to offend."
Zoe felt a twinge of guilt. If the butler lost his situation, it would be her fault, but how to remedy the matter she could not think. For the moment her most urgent need was to find Maria and relay to Sir Owen (or Peregrine) the conversation she'd heard last night.
Coachman Cecil suggested politely that Miss Zoe might consider taking the dog for his walk along the Thames today. After the heavy rains, the park, he said, would likely be "a mucky set-out." He adored Zoe, and when she proved adamant he voiced no more objections. Once they reached the park, however, it was very clear that his warning had been justified. Most of the pathways had become long puddles, and the grassy areas more closely resembled a bog. There were no strollers to be seen, and no sign of Maria's neat coach. Zoe alighted at the corner of Great George Street, and she and Gorton walked as far as Horse Guards Parade, but the wind was biting. Cromwell investigated railings and areaway steps with his usual verve, but Zoe saw that Gorton was shivering and clutching her thin cloak tightly about her. Seething with frustration, she realized there was nothing for it but to turn back. She kept a hopeful eye on the traffic, but to no avail. At the corner, a frigid blas
t met them, and she was almost as pleased as Gorton when Coachman Cecil came up and guided the team into the kennel beside them.
On the return journey, Zoe continued to scan the passing traffic, but when they approached Yerville Hall she had to admit it was hopeless, and her heart sank.
Gorton, who had been watching her in growing anxiety, said, "Ay do hope your letter has not brought bad news, ma am:
"Letter?" Zoe asked sharply, "What letter?"
"Whay, the one what come for you Saturday. Ay saw you reading it at your desk, and Ay thought—"
"That was a letter I was writing!" Agitated, Zoe said, "Elsie, are you very sure there was a letter brought for me?"
Beginning to be frightened, Gorton nodded, "Yes, Miss Zoe. Ay chanced to be fetching your kid shoes with the red ribbons—they were so muddied after you went in the boat with Mr. Cranford that Ay had left them in the kitchen to dry. The underfootman carried in the second post, and he put it on the table for a minute because Chef had cut up some stale cake and we was all give a bit. And the scullery maid—a proper widgeon she is—knocked the post over. So we all helped pick it up, and Ay saw it distinct. Your name it said, not no mistaking!"
"Did you chance to see how much had been paid? Was it more than a penny?"
"It was marked plain, Miss. One penny."
That meant London. Who in Town would be writing to her? It couldn't be Travis—no, surely it could not! She asked, "What like was the writing?"
"Oh, very fine, Miss. And a flourish to the letter Z, as I never—Oh, Miss! Whatever is it? Did not you get your letter?"
'A flourish to the letter Z…' Travis had always written her name with that teasing deviation from his beautiful copperplate. Then he was home! He was in Town, and had written to her, and his letter had been withheld. She felt dazed, and heard herself telling Gorton that she was all right.
"That you're not, Miss," said Gorton anxiously. "So white as any sheet is what you are. If 'tis because of your letter, Ay shall go direct to Mr. Arbour, and ask him for—"
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